Chapter 3
Tristan
CHASTEN: Yes! I’d love to! Are you in town?
TRISTAN: Moved here, actually.
I’m sitting on my bed in my childhood bedroom, staring at my phone and wondering if he’ll ask me about it.
Ask me about him. I haven’t been in contact with a ton of my college friends, especially those who moved away, since graduation.
I had Warren and we had our couple friends, and that was enough for me.
In the year since Warren’s death, I’ve avoided reaching out to people, even though Dad and Bobbie are always asking me if I have plans, if I’m getting back out there, if I’m taking care of myself.
I am taking care of myself, but sometimes that looks different for different people.
Sometimes, for me, taking care of myself looks like spending a lot of time alone.
But even I know that I can’t be alone forever, and it might be time to start investing in some friendships again.
Chasten, thankfully, doesn’t ask any questions about Warren or about how I’m doing. Maybe he doesn’t even know that Warren is dead. He probably does. Even if I never directly told him, word travels fast, and plenty of people from our graduating class love to talk. To gossip.
CHASTEN: I know a great place to get coffee. Does 10 a.m. tomorrow work? I’ve got the day off.
TRISTAN: That’s perfect. Just send me the address!
He does, and when I go to bed that night, I think about how nice it is to have something to look forward to the next day.
? ? ?
The place Chasten wants to meet for coffee is in the Castro, sandwiched between a vitamin store and a boutique cat-accessories shop. A bell jingles when I open the door.
I take a moment to orient myself in the café, which is leaning hard into the 1990s revival aesthetic. Lots of overstuffed couches, polaroids on the walls, mismatched dishes, and hand-drawn signs. I like it here.
“Tris!”
Chasten is sitting at a little table that’s designed to look like a chessboard. Even though I haven’t seen him in years, I recognize him immediately. He’s barely changed, with his sleek black hair and large eyes.
“Chasten!” A genuine smile breaks across my face—it’s good to see someone I know. Someone who hasn’t spent the last year constantly checking to see if I’m okay.
“Can I give you a hug?” he asks when I approach, which I appreciate. I’m not always one for physical touch, unless it’s something I’ve clearly consented to.
We embrace, and it feels natural.
“I haven’t ordered yet,” he says. “Let’s go. I’m buying.”
When we sit down five minutes later with our coffee—café au lait for me, Americano for Chasten—he offers a small smile. It’s friendly and has no pity in it.
“We don’t need to talk about this at all, but I just wanted to say that I heard about Warren, and I’m very, very sorry.”
People say all sorts of things to me when they find out I have a dead fiancé.
Most of them are well-intentioned, but most are too invasive.
Chasten’s words are simple and kind. There’s nothing pushy about them, and I remember how much I liked Chasten.
We were never that close in college, and I regret that now.
“Thank you. It’s still hard, a year later. That’s part of the reason I moved back to San Francisco.”
“Right, you’re from here.”
“Born and raised. I always thought I’d spend the rest of my life in Los Angeles, but” —I shrug— “plans change, you know?”
A grim nod from him. “What’s the reason you moved back here? You said that was part of the reason.”
“My dad. He’s got early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
“Jesus. You can’t catch a break.”
For some reason, the irreverence of the comment makes me grin, and then Chasten breaks into a smile, too.
“Let’s talk about happier things,” I say. “Not my depressing life. What do you think of San Francisco? You moved here by yourself, right? Are you seeing anyone?”
“Trust me, my love life is not a happy topic. Heartbreak after heartbreak, though I’m afraid I’m the one doing the heartbreaking.”
“That’s…nice?”
“First time I’ve ever been called that.”
I laugh. It feels good to laugh. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “But I’ve got a great group of friends. I’ll introduce you—though I’m sure you’ve got plenty of people here.”
“Not a ton that I want to connect with, honestly. Is that terrible?”
“No, not at all.” He sips his coffee. “You haven’t lived here in, what, ten years?”
“Yeah, about.”
“People change in ten years.” He shudders. “God, I can’t imagine hanging out with my high school friends. They’d be horrified by me.”
“You’re not that horrifying.”
“You don’t know the half of it. You know what, what are you doing tomorrow night? My friend Yale is celebrating his birthday, and you should come. I could introduce you to some people.”
“That’d be great!”
“There’s one potential catch, though,” he says with a little hesitation.
“Oh?”
He leans forward, dropping his voice low and conspiratorial. “How do you feel about fetish clubs?”